


Coming Home

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Mostly Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-02 23:36:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10230512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Aramis has come home.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Look what I found on my gdocs? I love writing fics then forgetting about them. Such nice fun.

Getting home is nice. Aramis pauses to listen to the chatty door, the familiar creaks of greeting, like a caress. Home. Welcome back. He sighs and rests his forehead against the edge of it for a moment, then steps inside. It’s not like he came back to talk to the door, after all. He bends to unlace his trainers, then crouches, feeling over the tops of his shoes, over the knots of his laces, closing his eyes, fingertips brushing the carpet. It’s different, like more feet have trodden it. Though that is probably projection, it feels real. He straightens and kicks his shoes at the wall, irritated. They thud, thud, one after the other, more violent than he meant - he forgot to undo the laces, it takes undue force to get them off his feet. Aramis stops and breathes hard, facing the white wall. Only it’s not white, anymore. It’s a pale yellowish, and there’s a row of little hooks on a wooden backing, with keys hanging on it. Aramis blinks at it, vision blurring with tears. 

“You changed things,” Aramis says. 

“Yeah, a bit,” Porthos mutters, coming the rest of the way down the stairs. 

Aramis starts. He hadn’t realised Porthos was there. Not really realised it. He was mostly talking to himself. Porthos stops, grimaces, and gives a helpless sort of shrug. 

“Hullo,” Aramis says. 

“Ath said… he said you asked me not to come to the airport,” Porthos says, face all crinkled with worry and sadness. As if three months is ever going to be enough. Aramis feels himself split open, happiness spilling suddenly into a grin. He tosses his coat onto the floor and laughs, throwing himself into Porthos’s arms. “Oh.”

“I didn’t want to cry too early,” Aramis breathes, holding on around Porthos’s neck, his broad shoulders strong and familiar, holding him up on tiptoes. Porthos smells like he hasn’t showered yet, today. He’s got on a soft old sweater, and he’s soft under Aramis. Aramis leans into him, sighing, pressing his face into Porthos’s neck, eyes stinging. “Changed the house.”

“Just the keys thing,” Porthos grumbles, wrapping his arms around Aramis and lifting his feet all the way off the floor. 

“And the wall! You painted it!”

“Eh?” Porthos turns his head, so Aramis grabs the back of his head, holding him still, so he can keep crying into Porthos’s stubbly neck. “I didn’t paint. Oh! I guess we did? Just that bit under the shelf. I got pissed and, uh, hit my head on the shelf.”

“Did you bleed on our wall?” Aramis says, pulling back, appalled, forgetting his tears. “Gross. Cool.”

“No! Well, yeah. I banged my nose and then sneezed. It was amazing,” Porthos says. “d’Artagnan thought you’d come home early and found me with someone and murdered them.”

“I wouldn’t,” Aramis says, hand over his heart. Then he scrunches up his face. “Not so obviously, anyway.”

“Obviously. That’s what I told d’Art,” Porthos says. Then he swallows hard, makes a strange little noise, and tugs Aramis back into his arms. “Christ, d’Herblay, I missed the fuck out of you. No more voyages of discovery.”

“It was a pilgrimage, and it was important,” Aramis says, with great dignity, despite the fact that he’s clinging right back to Porthos. Whose turn it is to cry. “Other than the sneezing blood on my wall fiasco, any news?”

“Loads. I had all kinds of adventures,” Porthos says. 

He hoists Aramis off the ground again, and Aramis struggles until he can get his legs around Porthos’s waist. It knocks Porthos into the wall and Aramis laughs, clinging with arms and legs, leaning into Porthos, holding onto him. 

“Never letting go,” Aramis decides. 

“Yeah you are. The radiator’s digging in,” Porthos says, pushing off the wall, hitting Aramis against the other. Aramis laughs again, but lets go. As soon as he’s on the floor Porthos scoops him up bridal style and staggers down to the livingroom, falling onto the sofa, Aramis falling on top of him. Porthos gives a great sigh of satisfaction. “Better.”

“Did you change anything else while I was gone?”

“Don’t think so. Oh yeah, I got bored of Cheerios, for breakfast.”

“Ohh, that’s a development. What are you on now?” Aramis asks, wriggling until he’s comfortable. 

“Tried Rice Crispies, but didn’t like, so now I’m having Corn Flakes,” Porthos says. “With banana.”

He sounds so happy and satisfied about it, so Porthosy. Aramis cries a bit again. He snuffles, rubbing his face against Porthos’s shoulder. Porthos yawns, spreading his thighs so Aramis falls between them. 

“What else?” Aramis asks, stroking Porthos’s chest, resting his cheek where he was just crying. 

“Um… I changed the bedding, because, three months. We’ve got flowers, now. Little blue ones. And new toothpaste, but the same type,” Porthos says. “Always get the same one. For the whitest teeth.”

“Shower gel?”

“The same. Haven’t been… hum… haven’t really been showering much,” Porthos says, laughing. “Not much point, is there? Working from home. No one but me to protest. And d’Artagnan and Athos. Athos is mean, by the way. He pushed me.”

“Did he indeed? Were you sulking and refusing to shower?” Aramis asks, smiling, patting Porthos’s chest. He knows his Porthos. 

“No?” Porthos says. 

“Mmhmm,” Aramis says, unconvinced. “Ok. Did you go to church for me?”

“Yep. A million Sundays. You owe me millions of ice cream sundaes in payment,” Porthos says. “I hate church. At least there were nice singing bits, though. Unlike d’Artagnan’s church. That’s just boring.”

“And what about these adventures?” Aramis says, kissing Porthos’s neck and the bit of skin above his t-shirt in thanks for the church-going, and carefully not promising the sundaes. It was the deal, but he hadn’t promised as such. Porthos can forgive broken deals, but not broken promises. 

“Got drunk and bashed my face on a shelf,” Porthos says. “Got drunk and crashed on Athos’s sofa, which is lumpy. Got drunk in Athos’s livingroom and crashed in his bed. He has a really nice mattress, we should invest in one. Sylvie was pissed at me for stealing her bed for the night, because she had to sleep on the lumpy sofa. I missed you.”

“I missed you as well,” Aramis says. “I’ll make you all the Sundaes you want. Promise.”

“Ha! I win!” Porthos says, giving Aramis a victory squish. “I knew you’d give in if I was pathetic enough!”

“Wait. This was all a show to get your ice cream?”

“Yep. I HAVE got new shower gel! I DID shower! I DIDN’T… well no, I did get drunk those time,” Porthos says, laughing. 

“Damn you and your scheming brain,” Aramis says, without heat. “You can eat a lot of sundaes. Do I have to provide the ingredients?”

“Yep. That’s the promise you’ve made me,” Porthos says, pleased as punch with himself. 

“You didn’t miss me at all,” Aramis says, with a heavy sigh, letting his head go heavy, his arms go limp, pressing his cheek to squash his face into a sad blob.

“So you know how we have that spare room? And the attic needed clearing? And there was that bed in the garden needed clearing? And the books waiting to go to the charity shop?” Porthos says, stroking Aramis’s hair. 

“Mm?” 

“Spare room wallpaper is stripped and the room’s painted and I put down the carpet. The attic is clear. The bed in the garden is clear and the books are gone,” Porthos says. “The house is spotless. The kitchen freezer is full of things I’ve been cooking. As are Athos and d’Art’s.”

“You did miss me.”

“Yeah. Of course I did. I hate your pilgrimages a lot,” Porthos says. “A very lot.”

“Shall we have welcome home sex? Portamis style?”

Porthos laughs, but shakes his head. Pizza and cuddling will have to wait, Aramis supposes, until Porthos is done with his clinging. Which Aramis has zero complaints about. He feels like he needs a bit of clinging himself. 

“Pizza is better than sex,” Porthos murmurs. 

“So much better,” Aramis agrees. 

“Do you want to tell me anything about this one? The pilgrimage, not the pizza plan.”

“No, not really. I was nervous to see you. I feel a little different,” Aramis says. 

“Mmmmm lots of muscles,” Porthos agrees, squeezing Aramis. Aramis snorts and flicks him. “You seem a little sadder.”

“I am. I think it’s a good sad, though,” Aramis says. “I think I worked some stuff out that I needed to. It’ll work it’s way out. Plus I really really missed you, and hated being nervous about seeing you. I cried at the airport anyway, when I saw Athos. He had to get me tea and borrow me his coat to get warm.”

“You always get cold when you cry,” Porthos says. 

“Exactly,” Aramis says. “I did a lot of walking, this time. Probably got a lovely arse out of it.”

“Always had a great bum. Very aesthetically pleasing. Romantic hero types always have great bums,” Porthos says, giving Aramis’s a fond pat. “Yep. Very lovely.”

“Thanks,” Aramis says. “I ate good food, did some thinking, saw some beautiful churches. I missed you. Ached over it. I might stay, next year.”

Porthos goes still for a moment, then bursts into tears. Noisy, serious tears. He sits up so Aramis can wrap around him, so he can press into Aramis’s arms, face against his shoulder, and cling on. 

“You’ve never asked it of me,” Aramis murmurs. “Never. It’s always meant so much, that you let me wander off, for however long I’ve needed. I’ve had enough of leaving you, though. I missed you. So next time, maybe you’d like to come to France with me? And see one of my favourite churches? It has beautiful glass. It’s sort of in the middle of nowhere, and when the sun shines, it lights the whole place up with this spectacular colour display. It’s where I first fell in love.”

Porthos nods, still busy crying. Aramis sighs and strokes over his shoulders, fingers playing over the muscle there, the soft give of flesh against the tightness and strength he’s using to hold onto Aramis. 

“It’s hard for you, isn’t it? My wandering?” Aramis says. “You’ll come, next year. Next time I get itchy feet, I’ll just scoop you up and drag you along, and we’ll go on an adventure together, and run out of toothpaste and shower gel together, and you can choose some French cereal, and grumble about it not being Cheerios.”

“Corn Flakes,” Porthos whispers, voice shaking. 

“Or Corn Flakes. Whichever you’re on by then. You know you only eat two types of cereal, don’t you? It’s always Cheerios or Cornflakes.”

“I had Rice Crispies,” Porthos says, indignantly.

“Tell me. Did you, or did you not, buy a box of them and eat one bowl one morning, and then give them to d’Artagnan and go and buy Cornflakes?”

“I did not,” Porthos says. 

Aramis doesn’t believe a word of it. But that’s ok, because Porthos is smiling again. Aramis presses close and lets himself cry a little more, too, sad because he’s made Porthos sad. Which is most of his sadness from this trip, really. His usual questions as he goes were all replaced with wondering if Porthos was ok, if Porthos missed him, if Porthos would like this place or that. With Porthos. 

“I know I’ve said I love you before,” Aramis says. 

“Damned right, I’ve been with you for five years. If you hadn’t I’d have chopped you up with cookie cutters.”

“Weirdly specific. I know I’ve said it before, and I’ve meant it every time, I really have. But I realised that I really, really, really love you. Beyond anything I’ve ever really thought about.”

“Well yes, obviously you do,” Porthos says, tipping his head back against Aramis’s forearm and looking at him, wet eyed, tired. “You always came home.”

“To talk to the door,” Aramis says. “People have been walking in our hallway, you know.”

“Yes, dear, that happens when you bugger off for three months,” Porthos says. “Athos came over a lot.”

“I’m sorry, turtle,” Aramis says, smudging the tears off Porthos’s cheeks. 

“Not something you apologise for.”

“It is this time. I went too soon, out of habit. And for too long, out of… something else. I should have stayed, or taken you.”

“No. You needed to think. Now you can stay, and take me, and be happy about it and sure of it. You’ll have to teach me some French.”

“You already speak French,” Aramis says. 

“True. Teach me German, then.”

“I don’t speak German! I can teach you Spanish.”

“Yes. That’s what I meant. Obviously.”

“You’re so utterly odd,” Aramis says, immensely pleased with it. “Wonderfully odd. People are normally such fucks. You’re an odd one, my love.”

“Pizza. And I want a shower. I feel gross and sticky.”

“Ok. You shower, I’ll order, then we can cuddle and eat, and then we can naked snuggle. I’ve missed all your skin.”

Porthos beams at him, and gets up, wrangling himself out from under Aramis, and does a silly little strip tease before laughing and bolting for the bathroom, thundering up the stairs, and then thundering back, bouncing into the room still starkers. 

“Sing,” he says, giving Aramis an expectant look before running off again. 

Aramis sings, the same old songs they’ve always sang. Folk things and Classic Rock, and the Pogues. He hears the shower go on, then Porthos joins in, and Aramis sings in time until the water goes off again, getting the pizzas on the internet so he can keep singing. When Porthos gets out, he can hear Aramis again and goes quiet. Aramis sings until Porthos comes back down, in pyjamas, looking damp and a bit rumpled. And a bit pink eyed. 

“Did you cry and sing at the same time?” Aramis asks, impressed. Porthos nods, coming over to where Aramis is stood watching the street for their pizza. Aramis turns to embrace him and rubs his back. “I’ve got you. It was meant to be me crying.”

“You can cry later, it’s my turn,” Porthos says. “I’m not crying right now, anyway.”

“Pizza,” Aramis whispers, and a second later the bell goes.

Porthos bounds off with a sound of joy, and Aramis huffs, his breath leaving him with the ache he’s had missing Porthos’s enthusiasm for food. An enthusiasm Aramis shares most of the time. Porthos brings the pizza back and flops onto the sofa, holding out an arm until Aramis curls against his side.


End file.
